GTA V, Beyond Death
by Mokrie Dela
Summary: He's not dead, but he wishes he was.


The man's head pounded as though a tribal drum was hammering away inside. High pitched melodic beeps shouted in his ears and his bleary eyes were filled with bright white light. He blinked several times to try to clear them, but met limited success. Still the beeping tortured his ears.

A distorted voice spoke beside him and he felt cold spidery fingers crawl across his arm. The voice spoke in tongues, and a strange, alien-like figure appeared in his blurry eyes.

The man tried to move his head, but his muscles were reluctant. With a slow and shaky rotation of his neck, he looked toward the figure standing beside him. The figure leaned in, and the same distorted voice said something in a language he did not understand. Despite the obscurity, the voice was soft. Feminine. The figure was a greenish blue. He was sure it was an alien. _What did they do?_ he wondered. He tried to sit up, but met resistance in the form of the figure's hand, gentle but commanding. He did not have the strength to fight it.

He tried to talk, but managed nothing more than a raspy gasp. His throat felt seized up. Dry. He looked at the figure. Was she friendly or malevolent? Where was he?

Another figure appeared and conversed in the strange language for a moment. The first figure reached over and reached out for the man's mouth. He flinched, but laying on his back had nowhere to retreat to. She lifted something from his mouth and instead inserted a cold, hard tube. She spoke again, but the man simply looked at her. She did something to whatever was on the end of the tube, and a cold, metallic-tasting liquid drizzled onto his tongue. Reflex kicked in, and he swallowed. Then he sucked on the tube, drinking more of the stale liquid.

 _Water._

The figure spoke again, clearly asking a question, although the man could not understand it. She repeated it.  
"Ca-oo-eeie?"  
The man's lip quivered in fear and water dribbled down his chin. The figure reached over and gently wiped it off. The question was repeated.

"Can you hear me?"

 _English!_ the figure was talking English.  
"Y-Yes," the man stammered, his voice deep and gravelly and weak. His words were slurred.  
"Do you know your name?"  
The man stared for a moment. What _was_ his name?

"No," he whispered after a moment.  
The woman – he was sure it was a woman – nodded. He could see the outline of her face now, although his eyesight was still blurry.  
"That's okay," she said. "We will have to call you John. We do not know your name, so we refer to such people as John Does. Is that okay?"

The man nodded. John. He liked that.

The woman examined him. He did not know who she was or where he was, but it was clear he was not onboard an alien spaceship.  
"W- Why can't I – I see?" he asked, finding the stammer in his voice unsettling.

The woman leaned over and looked into his eyes. "You've been out for a while. It'll take time." She touched his shoulder with a warm, gentle squeeze that told him everything was going to be okay.

Then, with panic in his eyes, he looked at her. He could see that her hair was a dark blonde, that she wore a green-blue T-shirt and matching pants. Metal glistened on her chest, the contours of which he could see as she leant over him. She smelt of lavender, and her breath minty.  
"Who am I?" he whimpered. The woman just looked at him, unable to answer the question. She was young – barely into her twenties, he guessed. He did not remember his twenties.  
"Where am I?" he asked next. The room had a strange smell to it. Like rubber and... something he could not place.  
"You're in Mount Zonah Medical center."  
It took a moment for the man to acknowledge. "Hospital?"  
"Yes," the woman said with a nod. His eyes were still blurry, and he closed them. "Get some rest, John."

The man woke in what felt like the middle of the night. He was sweating and breathing rapidly. A nurse was beside him, checking his vitals.  
"It's okay," she said. "I think you had a bad dream."  
[i]Did i?[/i] The man couldn't remember. He felt distressed, scared, and his head throbbed. He felt like he'd been in a fight, though he had no idea why he knew what that felt like.

[i]Who the hell am I[/i]

The next few days were difficult. Doctors and nurses fussed over him, checking his vitals regularly. The barely spoke to him; they rushed over and rushed away again. Several times he asked for the blonde woman, but the nurses either didn't know who that was, or didn't reply, instead encouraging him to rest.

Finally a man in a white coat had spoken to him.  
"So, John, I presume you do not know why you are here?"  
The man shook his head.  
"You were picked up by an ambulance crew on the side of the road, with heavy breathing and severe cranial trauma. The local hospital were not equipped to adequately respond to such extreme injuries, so you were air-lifted here. You have been in a coma for well over a month. I'll be honest with you, John, it's a miracle that you're alive."

The man felt the blood drain from his face and his skin turned cold.  
"W-What happened?"

The doctor shook his head. "We do not know, but we suspect you were involved in an RTA; perhaps a hit-and-run. Do you remember anything at all?"

The man looked up at the blurry doctor. "No," he whispered after a minute. [i]I don't remember [/i]anything!  
"That's fine," the doctor said, even though it clearly [i]wasn't[/i] fine. John looked up, his eyes reaching through the blur, seeking help. But the doctor was staring at his clipboard, writing notes.

"How do you feel?" the doctor said after a moment's writing.  
"I-I can't see an-and my head h-hurts."  
Another uncaring nod. "Mm-hmm. That's to be expected. Let's take a look." The clipboard was set aside and the man pulled out a small torch. It hurt as the light shined in John's eye. He blinked but the doctor told him to relax. After a couple of minutes he looked at the other eye.  
"It's possible that you've had some T.B.I – I suspect there's been some damage."  
"W-what?"  
"Brain damage. There's no telling if it's long or short term at this point in time, but judging by how serious your injuries were, it's to be expected."  
"I can't see?"  
"I'll arrange for an ophthalmologist to assess you later on today. Try to rest. You've got a long road ahead of you, but you're one of the luckiest men in the world."

The eye assessment was daunting. Firstly a doctor had administered a thorough test to make sure John could move his feet – he could, and that surprised the doctor. He was helped slowly into a chair by two junior nurses – one male, one female – and the doctor. From there another man wheeled him through the white and green hallways. John felt dizzy by the time they reached their destination. The man left him there and walked off. John watched, confused.

A few minutes passed and a nurse spoke to him. She wrote something on a form and once again John was left alone. Time passed – how much, he wasn't sure, but he was finally wheeled into the examination room, where his head was placed in and on a variety of strange machines. Once again he felt like he was in an alien spaceship. His eyes were blurry and the contraptions so strange that he felt like he was dreaming.

The eye test took a long time. He watched dots and flashes, read letters and words, saw colors and wore a heavy, bulky set of spectacles. Then he was taken back to his bed. The ordeal had tired him, and he fell asleep.

A few days passed and the doctor returned, handing John a set of spectacles. They were simple, basic rims, and the doctor adjusted them as they sat on John's nose.

John was amazed. He could see the room around him. He was in a bed, a green blanket draped over his body. Beside him stood a tower of medical equipment that was used to monitor patients, although he was not hooked up to it. A jug of water and a plastic beaker sat beside his bed. He reached for it once the doctor had gone, but he missed. He tried again, managing only to knock the beaker to the floor in a loud clatter. He reached for the jug, finally grabbing it and lifted. It immediately slipped through his grasp.

A nurse appeared, picked up the beaker and poured some water into it. She held it for John to sip from.  
"Thank you," john whispered when he was done. He looked at his hand and tried to make a fist. He couldn't.

[i]Brain damage[/i]

Physiotherapy came next. He was taken in a wheelchair by a porter to another section of the hospital, where he sat waiting. A middle-aged woman appeared and took him into what was a large room, separated into cubicles by green papery curtains.

She spoke for a while at first, asking him questions, few of which he could answer. She asked him how he felt, what troubles he was having, and he told her about the jug. She nodded and assured him that was normal and not to worry.

They started with simple movements. He sat on the bed as she guided one of his legs up and down, her hands helping the knee bend. Then she told him to do it under his own power.

His leg started shaking wildly and it felt stiff. She told him that was normal. His muscles were weak. He groaned and pushed his leg up, managing to move it with her help.  
"Good!" she said with a smile. "Excellent. Now the other leg."

They did the same with the arms and she told him they'd do this every day.

It took a week until she was comfortable moving up. His wheelchair was parked in front of two long, waist-high bars. She helped him to his feet where he stood unsteadily.  
"Hold on to these bars," she said. He did so glad that the last week had taught his hands to grab again. "Excellent. Now my colleague will be right behind you, so don't worry if you fall; we're here." John saw a young man behind him. The man gave him a nod and a warming smile. "I want you to walk forward," the woman said.

John slowly put one foot in front of the other. The female physiotherapist helped his placement, telling him how to move. "Heel first, that's it. Nice and slowly. Tell me if you struggle or need to stop."

She guided John's foot with her hands, but John was doing all the work. Slowly, his foot touched the floor.  
"Excellent!" she said. "Now slowly transfer your weight onto this front foot." John did so, feeling his whole body shake. "Brilliant!"

It took ten minutes but he managed to walk the ten or so feet of the bars. He wobbled like a plate of Jell-o, and thought he was going to fall, but when he reached the end, he was helped into his wheelchair. The two physiotherapists applauded him.  
"That's excellent work!" the woman said. "Truly it is. You'll be walking in no time!"

John was exhausted. He was taken back to his bed where another nurse gave him a clean.  
"Would you like a shave?" he was asked. He blinked and brought his hand up to his chin. He had a beard, and he hadn't even noticed. He simply didn't realize if it was abnormal to him. It wasn't a long, Spartan, beard, but it was well beyond a five o'clock shadow. He shook his head.

A week passed and he had finally begun walking. He was finally allowed to walk to the bathroom. The catheter was removed and he was starting to feel human again.

He relieved himself then stumbled to the sink to wash his hands. That's when, for the first time, he saw himself in the mirror.

His face was gaunt, his cheeks and chin covered by a graying-brown beard. His hair was scraggly, the color also lacking.  
"H-how old am-m I?" he asked himself. Middle-aged, was the answer, though he could not remember any of his life.  
He had a few tattoos, one on his chest, and he did not recognize them. He left the bathroom, feeling sick.


End file.
